


Whorewolf

by Cumvore, Slither-the-least (baeberiibungh)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Angst, Blowjobs, Bondage, Burns, Crying, Dark Stiles, Dark fic, Deepthroating, Explicit Sexual Content, Gags, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, Loneliness, M/M, Masochism, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Possesiveness, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sad, Sadism, Skullfucking, Slapping, Suicidal Thoughts, Super Angst, Tears, hooker!Derek, offscreen minor character death, suicidal ideations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2017-04-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 06:15:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,430
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6943198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cumvore/pseuds/Cumvore, https://archiveofourown.org/users/baeberiibungh/pseuds/Slither-the-least
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Where Derek is a two-bit dollar whore and Stiles is one of his regulars…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

You’d think that a town as big as Beacon Hills would have more than 3 gay hookers. You’d also think that with just the three of them they would have been raking in moolah by the ass minute. You may or may not think of hypothetical situations, say where werewolves were real, and the said werewolves might have better avenues of earning a livelihood than selling ass and sucking dirty cocks in dinky alleys and stalling cars. But then, you cannot obviously know this for sure in such a situation, there might be some hypothetical werewolf hunters around as well who surely would not maybe make it impossible for an orphan, homeless, penniless, alpha less and alone werewolf to actually get a stable job.

All your assumptions are wrong.

Derek Hale makes 33.33 % of the whole gay hooker population in Beacon Hills Town. His esteemed clientele includes a few teachers from the Beacon Hills High School, some white collar gents and a newbie there and now when some guest is in town. The locals are not that homophobic and the queer folks usually just try to escape the town as soon as they can from its suffocating environment of indifference. No, no one really messes with Derek, they just ignore him and pretend he is not there, not really, when he goes to the supermarket to buy a few things. The other two hookers, Isaac Lahey, who Derek is sure is pimped out by his father, and Jackson Whittemore, a sneering young man who mouths off too much are just a tad higher than him in social hierarchy.

Isaac is pretty with those doe eyes and those soft lips and he knows how to make himself look more vulnerable. Jackson is all fire and desperation and men like that combination, like how defiant Jackson looks at first and then whines for it afterwards - no shame, just need. Derek knows all these because all three were once whisked to an orgy at the Argents for a fun weekend and he got to see both of them at work. They got to see him at work as well of course. His scowls and defensive stature that made men slap him, punch him and kick him down and fuck him the hardest. They liked to see him moaning in pain in the mud, liked how they knew that he was a werewolf and their wolfsbane covered knuckledusters laid such bloody marks on him.

They were hunters after all and they knew well, very well just how to work him over. By the time the party was done, Derek was gasping with blood burbling at his lips, and cuts and bruises littering the whole length of his body. Isaac and Jackson had left early, pulled out by more concerned patrons who also did not want them to see how roughly Derek was to be worked over. Someone threw a few dollars near Derek’s head and Derek picked each of those, the notes and the coins and limped to his burned out husk of a home. Three days later he was back at his corner. Isaac and Jackson looked at him and then turned their face away, because it was that easy to disregard him. He was back and he was alive. That was all that mattered. 

“Hey there whorewolf!” cried a voice, breaking between ‘whore’ and ‘wolf’ just like always as if he were still a young kid going through puberty. 

Derek closed his eyes, took a deep breath and then let it out. Only then did he turn to face the mole dotted and mischievously smiling face of one 'Stiles' Stilinksi. He was the son of the town sheriff and one of the reasons Derek believed that he had never been hauled into the station for soliciting like Jackson once did, curiously just after Stiles brought him for one night. The sheriff was mostly a good man. He didn’t except bribes and caught the culprits well and good and was fast with his cases. But he could not, has never been able to, say no to his only child. Derek knew that Stiles manipulated the situation to be like so. Of the three Derek was Stiles’s favourite and Derek had that small bit of self-preservation to heed to him.

The Argents were different things. He stayed in the town and let them fuck him over and over, literally rape him and beat him bloody just so they would not go for his little sister Cora. Cora was somewhere in South America and still not beyond the Argent’s reach. They were a big family after all, spread right across the world. So Derek stayed here, alone and near omega status and Cora stayed safe if her irregular postcards were any indications. Those were the only thing Derek could call valuable to him, all the money and house and rest of the family burned away in the fire. So each time they called, possibly to kill him off, Derek submitted without one word, without a cry to stop. He just got that good at taking all that pain.

With Stiles though, it was always personal. For the Argents, he was just a toy, near about inanimate. They made him always feel the worst, and agree in his head that he should be killed off, of course, that is what he deserves, and it is not even a conscious decision of his torturers. He kept going there to die. He kept going back because he was sure that he would die at their hands and his end there, splayed out and possibly cut in two in the courtyard, the world going dim and silent, simply because no other option seemed more possible. He will die there like the dog they call him and he will die bloody and die alone and no one will mourn him and he will still not have done enough penance for what happened to his family.

But Stiles. Stiles who always managed to slap him the hardest, pull his hair till his scalp zinged with sensation, fucked him till he was dripping and still ask for more because he looked at Derek. He saw Derek. And anytime Stiles called, Derek would inevitably follow. Right now, Stiles shuffles closer, his smile wet and wide, well on his way to be drunk and Derek only spans his hand over his waist to straighten him up. Stiles leans in and kisses him then, Derek smelling the taste of the beer on his breath, and the food he had before that, and the smell of his cologne and his detergent, and the residual cum from his last jerking off session, tastes all of it, as he could taste the cum his last client left in his mouth and a dollar note in his hand and he wants to go with Stiles. 

Stiles curves one of his hand into Derek’s nape and a whimper escapes his throat before he can stop it. Stiles snickers and then he is heading towards his jeep that Derek will drive for him as Stiles is too drunk to do that and the Sheriff will kill him on principle if Stiles hurts himself. This is routine so Derek slips the jeep key off Stiles pants and Stiles clumsily climbs into the passenger seat of the old blue jeep. Derek drives both of them to Stiles home. Stiles seems a bit sober when he gets down. He takes the jeep keys from Derek and goes to the door. Derek goes behind him. Stiles opens the door and waits till Derek is inside to lock the door. The sheriff will not be back till early morning after his night shift.

Derek turns to Stiles who is slowly taking off his clothes. His plaid shirt come off first, and then his yellow tee with three horizontal black lines on it. Next he pushes down his pants and Derek sees that as usual he is not wearing any underwear. Derek is still in his old leather jacket that is no better than a cum rag now, his torn black tee underneath and the jeans that hang loose on him. Stiles steps nearer, bunches up some of Derek’s hair and then starts pulling him quickly up the steps to his room. Derek stumbles but walks as fast as he can. His throat feels tight and he feels overwhelmed for some reason. Stiles reaches his room and then unceremoniously throws Derek inside. While the cuts and bruises had gone down from his last jaunt at the Argents, the wolfsbane is still affecting him enough to send him crashing into Stiles’s table, shoving it.

Before Derek can take in a breath, Stiles is pulling at his clothes. Derek quickly takes off everything as he cannot afford new clothes at the moment. As soon as he is naked, Stiles pulls his fist back and socks him in the jaw hard enough to make him fall down again. Stiles takes a hold of Derek’s hair again and makes him crawl to the edge of the bed where Stiles sits down. His lips got cut and a bruise is blooming where Stiles punched him, but Derek immediately starts sucking Stiles off. Stiles does not take his eyes off Derek as he sucks and lick at Stiles hard cock. Soon Stiles is skullfucking Derek, making him deepthroat and gag at the intrusion but Stiles does not let up. He still looks at Derek every time Derek manages to open his eyes. Stiles lets Derek off his cock only after he had come and Derek feels like he is about to lose his consciousness. 

Stiles pulls him onto the bed this time, tugging on his hand. Derek gets on it and then gets kissed thoroughly by Stiles. There is no rhyme or reason to how Stiles act. His room always smells the same, he always smell the same, except for the unfurling pod of insanity that is adding an underlying stench of sickness to his aroma. Stiles is going mad, inch by inch, or perhaps nerve by nerve and all Derek can do is let Stiles do anything he wants to him. Stiles hands are cupped around Derek’s throat, putting just a bit of pressure and Derek cannot find it in him to stop. It’s the eyes that undoes him. Eyes that refuse to not stare back. Eyes that look inside him, and see him, not the hole, not a transaction, but Derek himself and whatever is left of his soul.

Stiles fucks him through the night, making Derek cry out many times. The last time Derek actually blacks out and when he wakes up, he is lying on the floor of Stiles room by the bed as if Stiles pushed him from the bed and he fell on the ground. Stiles is one the bed, a part of his head and one of his hand hanging over the edge of the bed, the hand brushing lightly over Derek’s skin. The sheriff has not returned yet, so Derek gets up gingerly, uses the bathroom including a refreshing shower and then dons his clothes from last night that were still in a heap where he had taken them off. He inches towards Stiles and calls out to him. Stiles opens his eyes and looks at Derek and something in him dies. There is not one iota of recognition in those eyes for Derek.

Stiles shakes his head and the blankness leaves. He pulls out his wallet and hands Derek a nice wad of money. Derek is shocked. It is too much. Stiles just presses it into his hand and once Derek takes it, turns and goes back to sleep, the blanket tugged over his body again. Derek feels a momentary need to kiss the edge of the shoulder blade that is poking out of the blanket but refrains and slowly walks down the stairs. His ass really hurts but Stiles just paid him enough for him to get decent meals for three days if he does not get any customers. He will stretch it into a week somehow. He walks to his home, stashes the money behind a loose brick that is half charred and lies on the half-sodden and half burned mattress that he pulled out of his room.

Derek wonders if he should tell Stiles that he is going mad, degrading neural synapses deteriorating his thinking ability and then shies away from it. He just hopes ardently that once Stiles is gone enough, he will have no qualms squeezing the life out of Derek, probably mid fuck. For him, the measly coward that he is, there feels no better way to die.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles ties the rope tight around his wrist and his legs. A dirty boxer, literally picked from the floor of Stiles' room is shoved into his mouth. Derek gives a slow suck to it. Derek is already naked. Stiles only has his tee on, his hard cock bobbing with every step. He pulls over the lube and starts fingering himself. Derek, who had been looking at Stiles with his head off the pillow lets his head down at that sight. Stiles want it to hurt today, and not only for Derek. It also means that Stiles will be merciless with Derek. Thank god he hadn’t been near any of the Argents or their goons in more than two weeks so he should be able to take anything that Stiles dishes out. 

Stiles is breathing heavily. He is almost done. His eyes are trained on Derek’s body as he follows his stretched out limbs. Derek wants to give a shiver at that intense look. Stiles wipes the rest of lube from his hand on Derek’s cock, tugging it a few times for good measure. Derek just widens his legs more to let Stiles have more access. Then, without so much as a by, Stiles straddles Derek, lines up himself with Derek’s cock and simply sits down. Derek groans. It stings but also feels incredible. Stiles gets up and then slams down back again and that is the pace he sets till Derek is grinding his teeth in as much pain as in pleasure and Stiles completely zoned out within moments.

When Derek comes, Stiles slows down, still hard, still tense and starts slapping Derek. The slaps are loud and sharp and make his eyes sting, overwhelming him from his drawn out orgasm and his inability to stop Stiles without showing off his full strength and how smart that will be with the Argents still living over his head. So he lets Stiles fuck himself into Derek brutally, lets him slap till even his werewolf healing slows down and his cheeks feel hot and his breath garbled and tears prickle the corner of his eyes. By the time Stiles comes, there are nail marks on Derek’s torso, tears and spit shine on his face and his breath is hiccoughing. Stiles sits on him, panting and cradling his hands. They looked red, puffy and wrecked with two broken nails.

Stiles slowly leans forward till he is pressing his face into Derek’s shoulder and lies there like that. Derek’s soft cock is still in him and he continues to straddle Derek and makes no move to get off him. Derek is sobbing softly, snot and tears and sweat making a mess of his face. Stiles turns his face to Derek and Derek knows that Stiles is looking at him but he is too busy feeling miserable and alone to give it any importance. Stiles brings one of his hands up, which feels hotter than Derek’s temperature, and curls it around Derek’s jaw before forcing him to face Stiles. Stiles face is like something dead, as if he has already died and Derek feels like crying for him too, this young 22 old boy who sees him when he looks.

Stiles wipes his thumb over Derek’s cheek, the movement so tender that Derek has to close his eyes. He can feel Stiles’ breath puffing along his collarbone and the underside of his jaw. His heart absolutely stills for a second when Stiles whispers, just above the sound of his heartbeat, “I want to die, Der. I want to be dead.” Derek is full out sobbing now, and shaking his head as if that will negate what Stiles feels because he does not want Stiles to feel like that, he doesn’t and if he could he would have given anything to Stiles to make him not feel so. But he is just a dirt poor hooker and his body is all that he has to give and yet, it does not seem enough. He knew, he knew, how hard Stiles was struggling, how he was forgetting things and people and words and the fear that ripples through him at each instance of proof of things wrong with him.

Stiles makes no effort to stop Derek from crying. He just holds on to his jaw and keeps thumbing his cheek, his weight pressing into Derek, Derek’s completely soft cock still plugging his asshole, his cheek pressed to Derek’s shoulder and both shaking under the onslaught of Derek’s loud and messy sobs. They stay like that till Derek calms down. Till he is just hitching his breath and his eyes feel hot and dry and nose stuffed and things are just one drop above unbearable. Derek wished that Stiles had not tied his hands, he very much wants to hug Stiles right then. As if Stiles heard his thought, Stiles gets off him with a winch and then limps to the corners of the bed to untie Derek.

Derek is too tired and too sad to realise that he is not supposed to do this, he is not even supposed to want to do this, he has no _right_ to do this, but he jumps off the bed and immediately hugs Stiles. His face is scrunched and he knows that he is crossing a big, big, line, but he is helpless not to. Derek hold Stiles to him and Stiles stands still in the cage of his arms as if he is not quite aware of it, or feeling it, neither tense or loose, just standing there. Getting such a non – reaction, Derek opens his arms and stands back. Stiles immediately turns away from him to pick up a rag and cleans his ass. Derek looks at him for a minute before heading to the bathroom for his usual shower.

As he stands under the water spray, Derek feels broken in a way he did not before. Stiles is just a client after all. A bad client at that, who hits him and hurts him, and looks at him as if each corner of his soul is visible through it all. He takes Stiles’ body wash, some fruity concoction smelling like lemons, chemicals and salt. He lathes his body up and washes himself clean and yet when he steps out of the bathroom, he feels heavy, he feels a large amount of sadness and he is not exactly sure why. He goes back to Stiles room and puts on his old and dirty clothes and Stiles is sitting at his table, watching something on his laptop. There are a few bills folded near the laptop, and when Derek is dressed, Stiles picks them up and points them at Derek without looking at him.

Derek bites his lips. He wants to say something but does not know what would be appropriate. He already crossed a line today, any more would be unwise. So he delicately pulls the bills away from Stiles hands taking care not to touch his fingers, turns and walks away. He gets a cookie off the jar on the island in the kitchen because Stiles has always told him he can and he feels hungry and it feels nice to be able to take a cookie off a jar in a well lit kitchen of someone’s home as if he belongs there. He opens the front door and closes it behind him. Dawn is just about to break, the sky tinged with light from beyond the horizon. The air smells fresh and clean and Derek still feels sad. 

Derek gets down from the porch and looks up at Stiles room. The lights are still on and he can hear him clicking something at his laptop, the thap thap of finger falling over the keyboard and the click of the letters. Stiles will come for him again, Derek assures himself. He will come again, Derek prays.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to my oldest friend Mac.

Derek feels a stupid smile trying to break on his face. The Agents haven’t been by for more than a month now, the longest since ever. From what he had heard around the town, the Argent son is making a fuss about how they run their operation, quoting a lot about what is ‘right’ and what not. One the other hand, the Argent daughter, a truly detestable and sadistic piece of shit named Kate is trying to take over the whole thing citing their matrilineal power structure. Meanwhile, cancerous old man Argent is dying from cancer, and stymieing for the power to rule still. It is enough of a hubbub that the Argents and their blockheads have kept to themselves, which means that Derek has not got raped in nearing a month.

To make it even better, Derek got three cards in quick succession from Cora with near plain gibberish in the back, except that it was their family code and Cora just let him know that she was able to get away from the hunters tailing her and was going into deep, deed hiding and for Derek to vanish as good as he can at the same time. This confluence of good news could not have come at a better time. Derek had been able to gather about a thousand bucks from his job, mostly from Stiles actually, managed to buy a few pieces of clothing, a bag, some toiletries and a cheap mobile, and had stashed the lot in a safe place for the moment. With Cora safe and the Argents too busy between themselves to give a damn about him, the absence of any kind of friend/family he might say his goodbyes to, Derek was ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

Once he leaves, he will never step into this hellhole again. He will never for the love of god or money or even family come back now, not now when he is sure that another life somewhere out there is possible. No one there will know that he is...used to be a hooker, that he sucked off dirty guys in dinghy alleyways for a buck and half, that he willfully gave up his body to be used and hurt just so that little sister could stay safe for some more days, or so that he would be able to keep himself fed. He is never coming back, he is never going to see all these familiar faces that had always turned their face away from him in badly hidden disgust and rudeness. He is done here by god, he is completely done.

He turns his head as he crosses the road and his eyes falls on the police station. Today it seems very subdued. Maybe they are out for a case or something. Suddenly, Stiles’ face blooms in his mind and Derek gives a hiss. Fuck. Stiles. He should, he should go say something to him for the last time, maybe tell him to go to the doctors. That smell of madness had ripened more and more around Stiles over the last few months. Maybe Derek will go and just talk for a bit. He won’t say he is leaving, of course, that won’t be prudent, but he can go and see Stiles face for the last time. He has the time for that at least. His bus ticket is for 8 in the morning and now it’s just 6 p.m on a clear day.

Derek gives a brief nod at himself and sets out to Stiles’ house, and completely misses the hearse that pulls out of the bend by the station, a good portion of the Beacon Hills civilians behind it. There is Scott McCall with his hands around his mother, a few more of Stiles’ friends and deputies from the station. Stiles is not walking among them. 

Derek reaches Stiles houses and notices how the house feels so solemn. He can hear the sound of sniffles and sobbing, but assuming it to be the TV and the morbid smell of funeral flowers just a part of his imagination, Derek raps his knuckles on the door loudly. He hears the shuffle of slow steps and even before the door opens completely, he can smell the sharp brine of tears. It is Stiles who opened the door, his face a mess like Derek had never seen, tears still visible on tear tracks, snot hanging over his upper lip and his eyes looking like live wounds, so red and inflamed. Derek stumbles a step back in shock, but then Stiles is already pulling him inside the house and closing the door after.

Before Derek can comprehend much, Stiles is wrapped around him and sobbing in great gushes into Derek’s tee. His pain is raw and hot and his hands instinctively wrap around Stiles. He remembers the last time he tried to do this and how well it went. But Stiles clearly needs him now and as he looks around the house, smelling the bunches of drying flowers and mishmash of food dishes, Derek understands. The Sheriff, something bad happened to him, and Stiles is struggling. Derek manages to pull Stiles onto one of the sofa and just lets Stiles cry all over him. It is heartbreaking to witness how Stiles is mourning. His mother dead so many years ago and now even his father is gone. Stiles is all alone.

Stiles cries and cries till he has no more tears left, but he still leans against Derek, breathing lightly against him. There is snot streaked across one cheek, from where Stiles was rubbing his face. His eyes look really swollen and painful and Derek has to stop himself from placing his hands on Stiles face and take his pain away. He is just a few hours away from freedom, he cannot take any chances. He asks Stiles if he wants any water. When Stiles nods yes, Derek extricates himself from Stiles and brings back a big bottle of water and a plate of small sandwiches that someone left saran-wrapped in the fridge. Stiles sips some water but doesn’t want to eat anything, but Derek manages to coax him to have at least one.

Stiles again leans on Derek and asks in a whisper, “Can you stay the night? I will pay you.”

Derek bites his lips to stop himself from agreeing immediately. He can’t, _he can’t_.

“I can’t Stiles, I am... Sorry, I can’t” Derek says miserably. 

Stiles nods his head to show his understanding, but then he turns away and goes up the stairs. Derek can feel it in every atom of his body to go after him, and tell him his goodbye in proper. But he can’t, he dares not. He just closes his eyes, takes a deep deep breath to pick out Stiles unique scent under those cloying flowers and spiced foods. Even more faintly, he can smell himself too, his presence lingering lightly as an undertone to the scent. He gives one look to the stairs, understands that as fucked up it had been he will miss this, miss Stiles and then walks out of the house. He has to leave. He has to. 

Derek walks to his burned house, and pulls out everything that he had stashed away into a heap before stacking them all into the bag he bought. The filled up bag is so small, so minuscule to start a whole new life with, but it is still better than nothing. Derek takes some of the tepid rainwater that was stored in a drum he had salvaged from the dump, and took a hasty bath with it. He dry shaved himself and cut himself a few times too. He put on one of his new clothes, making sure to put his dirty ones in a plastic bag that he could put on the top of his rucksack. And then he spends hours going from room to room, checking to see if he would suddenly find another picture he had maybe missed before, try to inhale their old and dusty scent cut through by smoke and his eyes gets teary by the time he was done.

It was just a house, the home burned out of it. And yet, yet it felt like he was saying his farewell to all the family members who had perished there. There was nothing supernatural there, just simple human want and memory. He pulled the planks together that made the door and closed them with the approximation of a lock with a sturdy twine that he wound around the planks again and again making it difficult to dislodge them from the space. Derek put his forehead to the door and then pressed a kiss to the closed edge of it. It was already morning. He will head to the bus stop now and just be in time. With a hitched breath, he called out, “Goodbye everyone. I… I won’t be coming back.” Lower he whispered, “I love you so much guys.” 

It felt like there was something stuck in his throat. He gulped at the still and silent air and then turned around. He took the steps down and then turned once more to look at the house. His new phone was so cheap that it didn’t even have a camera. He could feel tears stinging his eyes and he wished ineffectually for a better mobile at the moment just so he could have been able to take a picture of the house, a visible proof that he did once had a home and a family who had loved him. His breath stuttered at the thoughts so he turned for the final time and walked away without even looking back once. He was reaching the edge of the Hale grounds when he felt someone blocking his way.

Derek lifted his head and his mouth went a bit dry when he saw that it was Stiles standing with his hands in the pocket of his old red faded hoodie. 

“Stiles! What are you doing here?” Derek asked alarmed and also in a bid to distract him.

“You are leaving,” Stiles said in a neutral tone that raised goosebumps on Derek’s skin.

“Um, yea, yeah, I actually have an interview at the next town so I am going there,” Derek improvised wildly, his heart beating hard and quick.

“Ha!” snorted Stiles. “Who would employ a gay hooker in their right mind? What if you get the urge to suck someone’s cock just because you are so addicted to it? What then Derek?” he added.

That hurt, Derek thinks. He said, “They don’t know.”

“And what if someone were to let them in on this juicy secret about their new employee?” Stiles asked with a snarl?

“Stiles. Please. Let me go,” Derek said in a desperate voice. “I don’t want to be late for my interview,” he added.

“So you will go and then come back again?” Stiles asked titling his head to the side.

“Of course,” Derek agreed instantly.

“Is that why you were telling your dead house that you were leaving for ever?” Stiles asked this time.

Derek immediately blanched. Stiles saw that. He heard that. There was no way out of this now. He had to get out with the only chance he had. He now needed to overpower Stiles and keep him stashed till he could get on the bus. A soft blow to the head should do the trick. Meaning just to do that Derek took a step forward.

A clear shot rang in the woods momentarily silencing the birds chirping in the early morning. Stiles was standing in a professional stance with a gun smoking in his hands. His face was completely neutral as if he were pointing his gun at clay plates rather than a real live being.

Derek took another step and then had to still from the pain suddenly spreading through his chest. He looked down and saw that blood was spreading through the light blue shirt he was wearing which was in turn punctured jaggedly at many places. He could feel the silver now, burning through the skin. Stiles had just shot him full of silver buckshot. At least they were not covered in wolfsbane Derek thinks hysterically. Then it clicks in his head that _Stiles had just shot him full of silver buckshot_. Stiles knew, Derek gasps at himself. He always knew. Derek falls to his knees, his sight going groggy and looks at Stiles as he walks up to Derek.

“I can’t lose you too Derek, not today, not ever. I am never going to lose you,” Stiles says as if he were uttering an oath. Derek’s eyes rolls back and he falls to the ground and the last thing he sees before darkness descends is Stiles as he kneels by Derek. After that it is just blissful ignorance.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Soooooooooooooooo I wrote this chapter long hand and then misplaced that and hence the fucklong period of not updating in spite of saying otherwise. Sorry about that to the few who were reading.)
> 
> Please check the new warnings at the end for this chapter.

A startlingly brilliant awareness of pain is what makes Derek wake up. His chest is on fire, the blood almost burbling as the wounds try to heal and fail again and again. His mouth is wet with his own blood, coating the inside of his throat so that it is all he can taste and smell. _Stiles_! His brain cries out and Derek opens his eyes, remembering with sudden clarity how Stiles’ face had looked before he had lost consciousness. 

Now he was lying on a bed, with a moveable back like that of a hospital. There was gauze wrapped bloody around his chest and his hands were strapped to the side bars of the hospital bed. This was not Stiles’ room or even anywhere in his house, neither the hospital in spite of the bed, the white coloured walls or the impressive collection of medical equipment littering one wall of the room.

The door was closed, but through it Derek could make out some noise coming from beyond, enough to know that it was there but unable to comprehend what was making that noise. When Derek tried to pull at the straps, his chest began to burn anew, making his gasp out and still as much as possible to lessen the pain. Suddenly he heard, above his own startled gasps, footsteps that were heading in his direction. When he looked at the door, it opened and in stepped Stiles.

Alarms were clanging in Derek’s head. While he had known that Stiles was around, it’s seeing Stiles that makes him let out guttered snarls in warning. Stiles knows and Stiles is here. His nostrils flare and his breath hitches up and one of the machines connected to him starts to make an ominous beeping sound. 

Stiles, who had paid no attention to the defensive tactics of a still prone and injured Derek on the bed, tutted at the machine as it continued to beep loudly and went to it. He twiddled with the switches on it and the beeping instantly stopped. Derek was still snarling, half his features wolfed out and bloody foam gathering at the corners of his lips and not giving a damn because Stiles already knew everything. 

Stiles went and sat on the bed by the side, unmindful of the fangs or the glowing eyes and nonchalantly poked a finger at one of the bandage covered gashes making it bleed immediately. All the air left Derek’s lungs as he choked on the surprisingly sharp pain in an audible hiss. It hurt enough to make Derek struggle to pull in his next couple of breaths. He also felt inordinately tired, even though he had been conscious only for mere minutes. His eyes closed by itself and he started to drift back to sleep and he felt Stiles running his hands through his hair delicately.

The next time Derek wakes up, it feels like nighttime just like the previous bout had felt like late afternoon. The bandages have been re-wrapped and Derek could feel himself in considerably less pain. He looked at himself and saw that the straps from before have been changed into chained cuffs that connected below the bed to each other. He was still very much a captive but more movement had been allowed to him, and Derek knew that it had more to do with the severeness of his injuries rather than any piece of mind. 

As if on cue with his thoughts about personal peace of mind, Stiles stepped back into the room carrying a tray on which sat a large bowl of deliciously smelling soup and near it neat little stack of toasted bread.

“You are up. I thought so,” said Stiles.

Derek did not say anything, but when Stiles sat by with him with the tray on his lap and held up a spoonful of soup by his mouth, he opened his mouth without having to say anything. His eyelids closed on suddenly misty eyes at the taste. It was exactly like how his mother use to make it. 

“It’s your mother’s recipe,” Stiles provided with another spoonful of the delicious concoction. “My mother was her friend and she gave her recipe to her because apparently I loved this a lot,” Stiles added.

Stiles continued to feed Derek after this tidbit and Derek continued to eat, eyes downcast and with a slight shin and brows furrowed. He could not remember Stiles from any time before he became a client last year. Weirdly enough, not even in passing. 

“You don’t remember,” Stiles told him before continuing with, “I took those memories away.”

Derek stilled, eyes wide. Only alphas were able to take away memories, kernels and pods of personality along with those. And Stiles cannot be an Alpha, couldn’t be, Derek would have noticed that at least, would have been able to smell him. Stiles chuckled at his apparent distress and said, “No, I am not an alpha. Just know one very well, intimately, even. I think you know him too. He is the Hale alpha after all.”

Derek stared gobsmacked. There was a Hale alpha? Derek though wildly, is that why he never became one after the death of his family and neither Cora? But Stiles said ‘he’, does that mean that someone survived? The real Hale alpha alive and yet abandoned the remaining members of his family, just who…

“Boy, come in,” Stiles ordered in a firm voice, face turned towards the half-closed door.

The door opened some more when a body on all four came in through it. Derek was hit by the smell simultaneously with the sight and then he was vomiting violently to the side of his bed, managing to get sick on himself and the bed because he was still cuffed to it. 

_That smell_! It was like a pile of rotting meat, maggots infested and growing grey, dead white at the edges already. Derek could see the face of the man emanating that horrible smell and unbidden he uttered the first word since Stiles had shot him in his chest when he said faintly, “Peter..!?!?!”

Peter, or the thing that used to be Peter, slanted his hear to peer at Derek and Derek had to stop himself from retching.

“Stand up,” said Stiles, face devoid of any kind of emotion like pity or likewise.

At first it looked like peter may have not understood him. But then with lurching jerks and shaking turns, he was standing, but holding himself hunched over as if he was not used to standing all that much in his human form. Derek felt faint at the sight of his uncle and his supposed alpha if Stiles was to be believed and how dead he smelled to his werewolf senses. In spite of all that, he could feel it, he could feel that he was in the presence of the Hale alpha, _his_ alpha. The very much sick, dying and insane Hale alpha.

Peter’s body was covered in cracked skin, scarred over in horrible flashes of half healed skin. The flesh was visibly burnt over and over with perhaps iron brands. Derek was not sure if Peter had been burned with some kind of accelerant or had been actually been branded that many times. Only one of Peter’s eye and the area around it like some motley patch was normal. 

Otherwise every last inch of him had been twisted into veins of scarred up skin and dead nerves. His legs were twisted pillars of molting flesh and Derek thought he could see something move just below the skin. He tried not to see too closely. Derek’s eyes were pulled to Peter’s bare cock or it’s facsimile, that looked like a charred hotdog screwed into the skin underneath and itself and sticking to the side of his groin as the new skin seemed to have almost congealed there. 

Stiles cleared his throat pointedly and Peter snapped into a ramrod position. Derek heard the painful squelch of skin spitting at different places as blood and pus began to ooze from the same. Through it all, Peter looked on with his head aslant and drool dripping from his mouth in slimy strings onto his thin burned chest, looking skeletal and horrible. The burned out eye was white, puckered in and unmoving, but the other was even worse to look at, as it looked around jittering, almost seeming to vibrate in the socket which presented such a weird looking face as Peter stood basically still. 

Stiles said, “Come, Peter, say hello to your nephew Derek.”

Peter blinked his one working eye slowly and said in a voice that did not sound anything alive, “ _Derrrrr_ aek??” More drool dribbled as he tried to say something more.

“What did you do to him?” Derek asked faintly, overwhelmed at the sight of his uncle. With a rising volume he again asked, “What the fuck did you do Stiles?”

Derek’s eyes had glowed beta gold as he shouted, so when Peter’s went glowing coal red in response, Derek gave an involuntary whimper. All done and said, Peter was still the Hale alpha whereas Derek was a poorly Beta nearing omega status. There was no way he could not submit. He turned his face away, showing his neck in abject submission.

Stiles, still seated on the bed, leaned over and pulled on Peter’s hand. Peter gave a muffled and distorted groan of pain before stepping closer. Stiles pulled him nearer still till Peter was shaking an wincing at the hold Stiles had on his hand and his knees were warming the cool steel of the bed. Stiles rubbed a soothing hand through his flank till Peter stopped shaking.

Derek’s mouth was dry and his heart filled with dismay. Peter looked so broken, so smaller than his larger than life persona from before. There were tears in Derek’s eyes as he looked on at his uncle, with his lone crazy eye and burned and still hurting skin and completely shattered soul.

“Kiss your uncle hello Derek,” Stiles intoned in a voice that encouraged complete compliance. Derek’s breath hitched against that command. Stiles pulled over a whimpering and crying Peter on to the bed with one hand while he sank the other into Derek’s hair to pull Derek up and press his lips to Peter’s cheek, both paper dry and wetly hot just below the surface. A bolt of nerve-wracking pain and numbness of chittering insanity went through Derek at that and he cried out loudly.

Stiles got up from the bed and helped Peter into a more comfortable position by a very emotional Derek’s feet. Stiles picked up a roll of tp and cleaned up all of Derek’s congealing sick off the floor, the bed and his blankets and dressing edges. He put the dirty pieces on the tray with the half-empty bowl and took it out by the door.

Derek’s eyes were completely fixed on Peter as he tried to find a good enough area to look at. The white sheets on the bed started turning into the sickly brownish yellow in colour around Peter as he kept changing his position to minimize contact with anything till he finally just gave up and lay down on one side of the bed, pressed into Derek’s side even though it pained and his back pressing into the bed rods. As much pain Peter was feeling, maybe he was just alert enough to want to be near and smothered in pack to accelerate healing. 

Stiles returned quickly and fed Peter a couple of pills and a glass of water that smelled herby although it looked transparent with guttural crooning sounds that Peter responded hungrily. It sounded like a pack purr, Derek realized with a jerk. Water finished, Stiles got onto the other side of the bed, that was thankfully not as narrow as the usual hospital bed and then pulled and pushed Derek till his head was on Stiles’ chest, his ear just below his heart with Peter curled loosely around Derek. Derek could hear each and every heartbeat of Stiles and Peter as both rang steady and deep surrounding him. And then Stiles began to talk.

“You know Kate, right Derek? Kate Argent, that is? Well, before I had Peter take your memories away, you used to know her even better, much better,” said Stiles.

Derek knew Kate of course, she was the one who always managed to come up with the worst ideas to torture Derek, able to put her long claw like nails through the parts that hurt that bit more, taunt him with truths that made him want to die, laughed in mirth at his tears each time, delirious with pleasure at his misery. Oh how well Kate knew to play him, and the disappointment clear on her face each time after as if she did not find what she was looking for, making her even more crueler the next time. No wonder she had been so adept at destroying Derek – she had prior experience.

Stiles continued, “She was your senior at school and your second girlfriend, after Paige. She was already a murderer by then, with the blood of innocent packs on her hands at the behest of his demented father. She was in fact the one who had made sure that when Paige was turned, she would die from wolfsbane poisoning during transitioning. She killed Paige and latched on to you, but you were too naïve for her, too serious and obedient, too afraid of starting anything with someone older before you are ready, which is why she went after Peter, adventurous Peter with disregard for the law and disrespect for his alpha.” Stiles poked at Peter with his toe at the ‘alpha’ so that he yips in pain. 

Stiles added, “Who was married at that time, with a pregnant wife to boot and did not think twice about getting his dick wet in underage hunter pussy, fucking her into the ground while she fucked up your whole family. Six years ago, my mother was there too, visiting her friend, when Kate came with her body drenched in Peter’s stench and burned the house down, with my human mother still inside. Peter, who showed the bitch how to sneak in so that she could suck him off in the living room, with the scent dampners working full time, while the rest of the family slept unawares. Everyone burned even Peter who became the undeserving alpha he is.”

“Only Cora and you survived and we, my father and I, didn’t even find enough of her for a burial. Her grave is empty and near it my father lies now, also dead, overcome by sadness by the death of the love of his life, never having known how and why the fuck she had died. How thoughtlessly she was killed, as an afterthought almost, and I blamed you, used to blame you for the lot because Kate was your girlfriend, and it took me this long to bind Peter and know the actual truth, all these years only for my dad to die on me before I could explain properly,” Stiles ended his spiel with another dig into Peter’s side that made him yelp this time.

Derek was sobbing messily into Stiles’ tee now. He had mourned his family for so long, even Peter, to only learn that it was all pre-mediated. That Peter had actually helped to make it happen. Peter his Alpha, incumbent, undeserving, pathetic. A sudden rage rose in him, as he remembered with perfect clarity the things he had to do to survive and the things that he let be done to him, thinking himself helpless of any other option, for the past 6 years, and it was all Peter’s fault. 

Derek’s vision went fury red and when he became aware again, he could feel the strong power thrumming through his veins, his newly acquired Alpha powers, rightfully placed finally. There was dried blood on his hand, no sign of the wounds from the shotgun pellets and Peter’s poor body torn in half and thrown into the wall where it now lay crumpled and lifeless, an open cavity in his chest and his heart missing. All his hurt was gone, memories suddenly restored with the transference with the alpha powers. 

It took him a minute to look to the side and see Stiles standing, pride on his face. His smile, and his scent, that reeked like an insane asylum by now, made Derek smile back at him. Stiles stepped near Derek and said, with glee dancing in his voice, “Next stop, the Argent house.”

Stiles no longer smelled quite so much as mad as he did smell like mate to Derek, the distinct possibility of it, and when Derek pulled him in for a bloody kiss, it felt like equals coming together. Derek pulled back only to murmur, “ _They_ will have no survivors, we will make sure of that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Graphic description of burns  
> Peter Hale  
> Dark and angsty reminder

**Author's Note:**

> Not Beta read. Please leave kudos and comments, thank you.


End file.
